Warning: The following story contains mild violence, alcoholism, non-graphic nudity, adult employment, attempted rape, death, that sort of thing. Read at your own risk.

Today, I wake up early. There was a Cheetah Rights protest going on outside my window until about three in the morning, and all sleep after that was bleary and halting. I stumble out of bed and start the coffee maker, blinking the half-sleep out of my eyes. My apartment looks the same as it always does - low security door in the far corner, right next to the bathroom, which strangely has no door or curtains of any kind. A few feet into the room lies my table, disassembled fragments of weapons strewn randomly across it, with an instruction manual flipped annoyingly to page thirteen. There is a vase, but the flowers all died after I dropped an LFG's power source into the water a few days ago, and I haven't seen any that strike my fancy since then. The kitchen slash bedroom is similarly unfurnished, with little more than a fridge; a microwave; the coffee maker; and my bed, which doubles as a large hot water bottle. Nothing about the apartment has changed since last night, or indeed for the far too many months I've lived here.
A beep informs me that the coffee is ready, and I gladly pick up the steaming mug and prepare to bring it to my lips. Before I can finish, my alarm, which I forgot to turn off, begins ringing. Startled, I jump, and the coffee goes flying all over me. It hurts. A lot. I am awake now, but my body, which I have not yet clothed, feels as if it is on fire. Thanking my decision to invest in a walk in fridge, I run inside and huddle for a while as my skin alternately freezes and burns. Finally, I feel well enough to come out and inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. My fur is burned off in several spaces, leaving ugly red gashes across my body. I groan. It is not the best way to begin a monday.
I return to the bed, narrowly avoiding slipping on the coffee spilled onto the floor, and dress myself. Underwear goes on that way, no, that's backwards, white starship buttons fasten like that, belt just that tight, got to make the waist look small, pants all the way down, and I'm done. I spend the next five minutes staring out the hole in the wall they call a "window" and brushing my hair out of the series of knots it has become while I slept. Soon, I feel presentable, except for my coffee burns, but that can't be helped.
I've put it off long enough now. Keys in hand, I exit the apartment, carefully locking the door behind me. I do not have much to steal, but the neighborhood has low standards, and I can ill afford to have any of my belongings stolen. I walk towards the elevator, shivering from the cold - a long sleeved shirt, one that reaches past my navel, is something I really need to find - and press the down button. Slowly, the little numbers above the door blink different colors until they reach my floor. The door opens, and I gratefully step inside.
It is not until I reach for the ground floor button that I notice the elevator is not empty, as I had assumed. Mr. Muttley is there before me, lounging against the wall in an ugly green suit which proudly advertises "Paul's Pigeons" on both sleeves. Mr. Muttley lives in the apartment directly above mine, and I think his only hobby is drilling holes in the floor and watching me when I wake up or go to bed. I slap him as a greeting, and he pretends not to notice.
"You know, it's not my fault you don't seem to own a nightgown," he says, carelessly dusting the spot where I struck him. "Paul's Pigeons has a new line of nightgowns that would suit you perfectly."
Staring at the ugly image of green he lingers in, I try to imagine what Paul's idea of a nightgown would be. A green bikini - two shades of green, perhaps, with pigeon markings - and a mask. I would not wear the hypothetical outfit without the mask, but I would rather not wear it at all, and I tell this to Muttley. He laughs, and calls me a flirt. The next floor is actually the third, but I get off anyway, and take the stairs down the rest of the way. I miss my bus.

I am supposed to show up before nine, but it is a quarter after when I reach the weapon shop where I work. Walking in-between shelves and shelves of dart-guns and music videos - the truly dangerous stuff not being kept in the entranceway - I pass my boss, who is sitting at a desk, looking through a catalog. "You're late," he says, in place of greeting. I nod.
"Bad way to start the week, Zee," he says. Zee is his nickname for me. I hate it. Once again, I nod, preparing for the worst. There is a pause.
"Christmas is coming up, you know. Might want to start shaping up if you want your holiday bonus. That means showing up on time, Zee, with a cheerful smile."
I smile. He grunts, and returns to the catalog. I walk inside, where my coworkers are already, with no customers to attend to, assembled around the cash register, which has been set up to play three way "Pong".
Alice spots me first. "Hi, Zoe," she says, probably losing the game in her eagerness to greet me. Alice is a dirty brown rabbit, born with a stump on her head that the doctors said would someday grow into a third ear. It still hasn't, but Alice is proud of it. Alice is small, cheerful, and almost certainly homosexual. Our boss promises to fire anyone who admits to such a "failing", so she keeps quiet about it. Forcing the smile to remain on my face, I manage to avoid her gaze without seeming impolite.
"Hey, pink woman. Long time no see," proclaims Rane, and laughs at his own joke. Rane, a pig, is by his own estimation the "cool" one of our little group. His clothes are never wrinkled, and he treats us all with a feeling of haughty superiority. Our boss wonders why we can't all be more like Rane.
"Hello," says Edward, evidently relieved by my arrival. Edward is a very shy zebra-striped lizard, whose tails Rane regularly pulls off and adds to his collection. Edward had been turned out of his family's house when I found him on the street a few months ago. Turns out, he has a very organized mind, and was able to get a job here as shelf stocker. Whenever we or our customers want something, Edward knows where in the store it's hidden. He will not tell us where he lives. I like him more than the others, even if our conversations are always pretty one-sided.
And me? I'm Zoe Cottontail. I'm a pink furred rabbit with long orange hair. I'm twenty-two years old, and sell dangerous weapons for a living. And all that information is available on my civic identification card, along with such details as my current residence, my tax bracket, my mother's maiden name, and my number of pets. I have never had a pet, but am unable to convince anyone of this, so the card continues to state that I am the proud owner of a snow monkey. I am rather fond of this snow monkey, and have named him Gibbles. If Gibbles existed, he would probably enjoy playing with my hair and stealing the brush. I like Gibbles.
I improvise a quick greeting and slump into my seat behind the counter. Edward and Rane continue the game, but Alice hurries over towards me, obviously alarmed. I try to remain oblivious while she examines my body.
"Look at you!" Alice finally cries, torn between pity and confusion. "What happened? Your fur is burned right off, here, and here, and your skin looks really painful!"
"Coffee accident," I tell her, not eager for the morbid report to continue. "Startled by the alarm going off. Does it look that bad?"
Instantly I curse myself for adding the last question, but Alice is nodding vigorously. "That's got to hurt," she says, moving over to her chair and rummaging through a drawer. "Here, I've got some burn ointment I can put on you if you want." I reject the offer. Alice, hurt by rejection, replaces the ointment and moves off towards a corner to sulk. I stop watching and move my gaze to the door, which remains closed. Still tired from the Cheetah protest, I am actually nodding off when I hear the jangling sound caused by an arrival. Sitting up straight, I do my best to look professional as the newcomer finds his or her way in.
It is Mr. Muttley. I flinch, hoping he will realize that Rane's booth is much closer to the door than mine is. My hopes fall through - he strides over to me jovially, green suit flapping around him. "Good morning, Zoe," he says, mock-bowing. "I need a new drill gun. Last one got gummed up by a spot of marmalade." I smirk. It was pure luck that I had been eating marmalade that day, but somehow it had felt even better on my ceiling than in my mouth at that moment.
I call over Edward, who heads off towards what I can only assume must be the drill gun section. Muttley wants to know if we have any drill guns with built in binoculars, but I tell him no before Edward can accidentally seal my doom further. Muttley pays for his gun and leaves, and I thank any deity I can think of that the encounter was not any worse. Alice, who has finished sulking, now wears a puzzled expression.
"You know that guy?" she asks, and I nod. "That's Mr. Muttley. He lives in the apartment above me. Real slimy guy."
Alice has a funny look in her eye. "You should come to the bar with me tonight," she stays, staring in the direction Muttley exited. "You might find it interesting." I look at her closely. She seems sincere. I nervously agree.
There are few other customers. I spend much of my time in my chair, pretending to watch the door, but actually making up stories about Gibbles. I imagine that Gibbles wasn't allowed to stay on the planet he came from, and was forced to come live with me instead. Someday, if I am ever in trouble, Gibbles will come to my rescue. That is the sort of person Gibbles is.